


A Little Thing Called Transference

by Lenore



Category: Smallville
Genre: Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Post-Rift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adult Clark has a genius!kink—his therapist says it's because of his teenage acquaintance with Lex, which he himself thinks is nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Thing Called Transference

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my [Birthday Smut-a-Thon](http://scribblinlenore.livejournal.com/556141.html). Thank you to [](http://rheasilvia.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://rheasilvia.livejournal.com/)**rheasilvia** for the really fun prompt!

It started with a colleague’s trip to Duluth and ended in therapy. This was just the way Clark’s life went sometimes.

“Kent, I need you to do me a favor.” Myrna Hooper, the _Planet’s_ septuagenarian science and technology writer, tottered over to his desk. Cigarettes had wrecked the entire middle range of her voice, leaving her alternately high-pitched and wheezy or as booming and baritone as a longshoreman. She depended on a cane to get around and had been known to use it as a battering ram when people didn’t clear out of her way as speedily as she thought they should.

Clark was pretty much terrified of her.

“Um, hey, Myrna, what can I do for you?” He smiled nervously, eyeing her cane.

“My great niece is having her first baby, and the poor thing needs some help, and her mother is utterly useless.” She mimed tipping back a glass; apparently the mother was a drinker. “So I’m off to Duluth for two weeks. You’ll take over for me while I’m gone.”

There was no question mark at the end of that sentence.

“Um—“

Myrna studied him for a moment. “Yes, you’ll do.” She nodded in satisfaction and hobbled away.

“But—“ Clark called after her feebly, to no avail.

He was stuck covering Myrna’s science beat until she got back. And thus began the Big Problem, as he’d taken to thinking of it.

* * *

“Can you believe Myrna just dumping her column on me like that?” Clark griped to Anaraki, the Justice League therapist he’d finally broken down and begun seeing in the desperate hopes of fixing the Big Problem. “I blame her for this whole thing. And who lives in Duluth anyway?”

Anaraki regarded him with an unnervingly steady gaze. She was from Xeron, and her species didn’t blink, something Clark had never quite gotten used to. “You don’t think that perhaps you could have spoken up a bit more forcefully than you did?”

“Myrna’s scary,” Clark grumbled under his breath, mostly to himself.

Xeronians had uncannily good hearing, however. “You are invincible, are you not?” Anaraki seemed perplexed. “This Myrna did not wield a Kryptonite weapon, did she?”

Clark shook his head. “Just a cane.”

“A Kryptonite cane?” Anaraki frowned, still confused.

Clark let out a weary sigh. “Can we stop talking about Myrna now?”

He was not what you’d call a natural at therapy. This had been his one discovery in the five sessions they’d had so far.

* * *

Clark’s initial assignment on the science beat was to interview the current Nobel laureate in physics about his groundbreaking work on time dilation fields. Simple enough. Or least it would have been if not for the Big Problem.

Victor Toscano taught at Cal Tech, and Clark flew out to LA (the old-fashioned way, since the _Planet’s_ comptroller would wonder why he didn’t turn in travel expenses if he went under his own steam), and they met for lunch at a taco stand that Victor assured Clark served the best Mexican to be found north of the border. They ordered at the window and carried their food over to a weathered picnic table. Clark asked questions in between bites of his carne asada.

It was all so _civilized_ compared to his usual interviews with dirty politicians and indicted mob bosses. Maybe Clark didn’t mind so much that Myrna had dumped her column on him.

But then he asked what turned out to be the absolutely worst question possible. “So what was your inspiration? How did you decide to pursue this work?”

Victor Toscano’s expression took a contemplative turn. “I was always curious of course, but I suppose I must also confess to a hunger for greatness. At night, I’d look at the stars through the old telescope my grandfather left me, and I’d ponder the limitlessness of space, and I’d resolve that my own intellectual pursuits should be just as unbounded. Where other men might see an obstacle, I would see only a challenge. My existence would leave its mark on this world. I would settle for nothing less.”

Toscano was an ordinary-looking man, middle-aged and a bit paunchy, but as he spoke, his eyes gleamed with intelligence and passion and a ferocious determination. Clark realized at a certain point that his mouth had gone dry, and then a restless heat settled in the pit of his stomach, and every nerve ending in his body prickled suddenly to life. By the time Toscano finished speaking, Clark was squirming in his seat, so ragingly hard it brought tears even to his super-powered eyes.

“Um—“ he stuttered helplessly.

“Yes, Mr. Kent?” Toscano fixed him with an inquisitive look, clearly expecting another question.

A bead of sweat—actual _perspiration_ —trickled down the side of Clark’s face and landed with a plop on the picnic table. “Um—“ he repeated stupidly.

Victor Toscano’s forehead creased with concern. “Are you all right, Mr. Kent?”

Clark could only stare back at the man. He had no idea how to answer that question.

* * *

“So it was Mr. Toscano’s description of his own ambition, his desire to push the boundaries of what was possible that served as the catalyst for your reaction?” Anaraki asked, as if this were of great import.

Clark looked at her blankly. “Yeah. So?”

“Does that not perhaps suggest something to you?” Her tone was coaxing, the way a person might speak to a small child.

“Not really,” Clark told her.

“Allow me to rephrase. Do those qualities remind you of _someone_?”

“Besides Mr. Toscano?”

“Yes, Kal-El,” she answered with exaggerated patience.

He furrowed his brow and thought as hard as he could and finally had to shrug. “I got nothing.”

“Interesting,” Anaraki said as she scribbled a note to herself.

The notebook was lead-lined, so Clark couldn’t even sneak a peek.

* * *

Just a fluke. Had to be. An embarrassing, completely unaccountable, never to be repeated fluke. This was what Clark told himself after the first incident.

Then he took up his second science column assignment, and the fluke theory was sadly discredited.

Miles Ang was the billionaire bad boy of software development. His revolutionary approach to operating systems had all but bankrupted Microsoft, and he’d single-handedly put the sexy back in spreadsheet programs. At least, this was what his PR department claimed. In his spare time, Miles Ang drove fast cars, broke hearts of both genders, and entertained his 3 billion Twitter followers with a nearly constant barrage of Tweets on subjects ranging from Zoroastrian philosophy to the battle strategies of Hannibal to the 49ers quarterback problems.

If there was one thing Miles Ang couldn’t stand, it was reporters. He’d been known to throw things at press conferences when he felt the questions had hit a critical mass of stupidity. This was exactly what Clark needed to get back on his game—some hard-nosed investigative journalism with a contentious interviewee who wouldn’t want to tell him anything worth knowing. Yep. Exactly what he needed to avoid a repeat of what happened last time.

That was what he’d thought, anyway.

They met at AngCo’s corporate office, a whimsical mess of a building that looked like a very tall pile of Legos in the San Francisco skyline. Miles Ang himself greeted Clark at the entrance to the executive suite, a bottle of water in hand, an impatient expression on his face. He was tiny, no more than five feet tall, spiky-haired, and more frenetic than the most amped-up junkie Clark had ever run across.

He didn’t wait for Clark to introduce himself, just launched at once into a rant. “I don’t know what my PR people told you, but I don’t have all day to sit around answering a bunch of moronic questions I’ve only heard a billion times before,” he said in a breathless rush. “You don’t build a successful company by sitting behind a desk. You need to be out there, among your people, surveying your domain. If you want to talk to me, you need to keep up.”

Ang set off down the corridor at a fast clip, and Clark hustled to catch up. “So, Mr. Ang, what I really want to know—“

He waved his hand impatiently. “You people always want to know the same things. So let’s just cut to the chase. How was I able to do it? I’m a fucking genius! I am so smart your tiny little brain cannot comprehend even a fraction of a faint glimmer of my intelligence. Why do I do it? Because I can! And also for the money. I like nice things, pretty people, and a good time. Anyone who says you can’t buy your way to happiness hasn’t actually tried. Will I be able to stay on top? Yes. Because I’m a ruthless son of a bitch. Cross me, and I will cut you and ask questions later and they’ll find your body in some landfill in New Jersey in about a hundred years.”

The diatribe ended just as they arrived at a balcony that overlooked an enormous workspace with row after neat row of desks, employees typing furiously at laptops, busily crafting the next generation of AngCo breakthroughs.

“Just look at this.” Ang swept out his arms theatrically. “That’s the future being made down there. And it’s mine, mine, all mine! Those people? Also mine. The best and brightest, and every one of them willing to sell their last kidney to work here. You know what else is going to be mine someday? The whole fucking world. Because I’m that fucking smart. So what do you say about that?”

Nothing, as it happened. Clark was too busy panting to be able to manage actual words. His body seemed to have forgotten that it was super, that he could exist in the airless void of space. He felt as breathless as—a person who could actually become breathless. He shook a little, and he was hot all over, and oh God, his trousers were significantly tighter in a certain area than they had been when he’d put them on that morning.

So, so not a fluke.

When Clark didn’t answer, Ang fixed a ruthlessly impatient look on him, and then his expression lit with understanding. “Ah, yes, well I can’t say that’s never happened before. You’re attractive of course, if you like that kind of thing. But I’m afraid big and slack-jawed has never done it for me. We’re finished here, right?”

He took off down the corridor without waiting for an answer.

“Um—“ Clark called after him feebly.

Ang tossed over his shoulder, “By the way, if you write something I don’t like, you should know that I have a very large and utterly tireless legal team and enough money to sue you until the end of time.”

Then he was gone. Clark’s erection was still very much present.

* * *

“You begin to connect the dots?” Anaraki prompted once Clark had finished this part of the story.

“What dots?” Clark was starting to feel frustrated.

“Sometimes when things in the past are left unresolved, we bring them with us into the future, acting them out with different people and situations. Think back to your boyhood, Kal-El. Was there a relationship that was especially important to you that did not end well? Is there someone you miss from that time in your life?” Anaraki leaned forward as if she were willing him to come up with the answer.

“I really can’t think of anyone,” Clark told her.

“No? Fast cars and keen intelligence, an appreciation for the finer things in life and utter ruthlessness in business do not seem familiar at all?”

Clark thought about it long and hard. “Nope. Not even a little bit.”

Anaraki let out a sigh and waved her hand. “Proceed with your story.”

* * *

The third time was the final straw. The strawiest straw that ever—strawed.

Babette Fishbinder had caused a stir in the art community with her innovative use of video and lasers to create ephemeral portraits that were a powerful statement about the commoditization of art. Or so Clark had read in a back issue of _Art News_. Babette had also caught the interest of law enforcement with her tireless, not to mention creative, stalking of a man she’d gone to high school with some fifteen years earlier.

“Isn’t he perfect?” This was how Babette greeted Clark when he arrived at her studio in downtown Metropolis.

She stared moony-eyed up at an image on the wall. It was made of throbbing points of light—“a modern, technological take on Seurat,” one reviewer had described the technique. The subject was a boy maybe sixteen years old, sporting a mullet and the kind of grunge attire that had been popular back in the 90’s.

“Well?” Babette put her hands on her hips. Apparently she’d actually been expecting an answer to her question.

“Um, I sure he’s a great guy?” Clark offered with a nervous smile.

“ _Perfect_ ,” Babette reiterated, leaving no room for argument.

The picture dissolved, and another appeared on the ceiling. It divided like a cell, again and again, until every wall in the place glowed with the image of Babette’s obsession.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Babette told Clark impatiently. “Come see the rest of my work.”

He followed her deeper into the labyrinth of her workshop, along a narrow, wending path past piles of computer guts and discarded tools.

“I’ve always been interested in technology, of course. I got my start with video.” Babette waved airily at a bank of monitors that played images of ordinary household objects interspersed with video of the guy Babette had the hots for, taken at various ages.

“He looks kind of pissed off in a lot of those shots,” Clark ventured carefully.

Babette nodded, smiling dreamily at the monitors. “This piece is a critique of the objectifying gaze, and he feels very strongly about that.”

Clark suspected he probably also felt pretty strongly about being followed around by a stalker with a video camera, but he kept that opinion to himself.

Babette led him over to a table pushed against the wall. “A few years ago, I took a brief detour from my more technological aesthetic to explore the possibilities of found objects.”

A variety of items were laid out on the table: a gold lighter, a crumpled piece of paper, a hairbrush, one black Addidas sneaker.

“Um, these don’t all belong to—you know.” Clark jerked his head toward the image of the guy on the video monitors.

“Of course they do.” Babette looked confused. “Who else’s would they be?”

Clark was beginning to see why the police had been called in. “So could I ask you about—“

“Why I chose to mix technology with art?” She sighed heavily. “That’s what everyone wants to know. What you really should be asking me about is my inspiration. Why this one subject? Why don’t I explore something else? It’s not just that he’s perfect. It’s that he’s a mystery, layer upon layer of enigma, and I need to understand. If I could, I’d take him apart at the seams just to see how he’s put together.”

Her eyes shone dementedly, and a normal person would be pulling out his phone to call 911 about now. Instead, Clark was edging his notebook lower, trying to hide that he was—

“Huh,” Babette said, taking in Clark’s boner with an artist’s critical eye. “And I would have sworn you were gay.” She clapped her hands together. “Anyway, I’ve got more work to show you.”

She swirled off leaving Clark to languish in his humiliation

* * *

“And she was right!” Clark told Anaraki. “Not only do women not turn me on, but their, you know—“ He cupped his hands in front of his chest. “Have kind of always terrified me. Um. No offense intended?”

Anaraki waved her hand. “None taken. We are all well aware of your fear of breasts.”

“So what is it? What? Why would I—with—“

“Can you not guess?” Anaraki’s eyebrows drew together in perplexity.

Clark blinked at her. “No. I really can’t.”

“A person single-mindedly focused? With a room devoted to their obsession? Ruthlessly determined to know everything about the object of their desire?” She held his gaze expectantly—Clark would even have thought impatiently, except the Xeronians were known for their unflappable calm. “Does that not ring a bell, as your people say?”

“Nope. Not so much.”

Anaraki shook her head and muttered something under her breath. Clark could have sworn it sounded like: _I see super intellect is not one of your powers_. But the Xeronians were also known for being exceedingly polite, so that couldn’t have been it.

She took a breath and let it out. “In therapy, we do not usually supply answers. Instead, we guide our patients to find those answers for themselves. However, in this case, I feel we can deviate from our usual practice. You have been having inappropriate reactions in the presence of eccentric geniuses because of your unresolved feelings for your boyfriend companion Lex Luthor.”

Clark spent a good solid minute just staring at her. “That’s it? That’s your big insight?”

If this was her answer to his Big Problem, frankly, Clark had to think therapy was a Big Crock.

“When you make your peace with Lex Luthor, you will be able to interview Nobel laureates without fear,” Anaraki assured him.

“That’s ridiculous. And anyway, I can’t just call Lex up and say: Hey, my unresolved issues for you are causing me intense career embarrassment, so could we catch a movie or something?“

“Why not?” Anaraki asked, perfectly seriously.

“Because, because—“ Clark sputtered. He just couldn’t. He didn’t have to explain why.

“I am afraid our session has come to an end today. Please call on me if you and Mr. Luthor decide to seek couples counseling.” She smiled serenely.

“You’re delusional, you know that, right?” Clark said snippily, getting to his feet.

She waved goodbye as he stomped out of her office. She was still smiling.

* * *

Clark trudged home, muttering under his breath the whole way, drawing more than a few _wow, that guy must be crazy_ stares. The idea that he was hung up on Lex was utterly ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous, whatever the word for that was. Clark couldn’t come up with one just at the moment, but he was sure it must exist.

“I totally do not have a thing for Lex,” he told himself.

His body answered this assertion with a rush of heat to embarrassing places.

“Okay, fine.” He took a breath and let it out. “I might have had a teeny tiny crush on Lex when I was a kid.”

His traitorous brain conjured up a picture of Lex, the first time Clark saw him at the mansion, when he’d gone to return the truck, Lex in his fencing gear, hurling the foil away in disgust, narrowly missing Clark, whipping off his mask, eyeing Clark with surprise and concern. Clark had gone weak all over, his knees liquid and barely able to hold him up. He could still remember how he’d had to cling onto the wall, trying to look casual about it.

“Yeah, so maybe it wasn’t such a tiny crush,” he admitted. “But that was then. I have no feelings for him now.”

Another image sprang to life in his head, of Lex, at a press conference he gave last week: sleek in an impeccable black suit, standing at the podium like he owned the world and everything in it, chin tilted up like a dare, his long, elegant hands making the occasional graceful sweep to punctuate a point. Clark had stared and stared and gone away afterward without a clue what the press conference had been about.

“All right, fine. Maybe I still have some feelings for him, but it doesn’t matter. Lex does stuff—shady stuff and—okay, so nothing’s ever been proven. But he’s a Luthor and—okay, now I sound like my dad. The problem’s not that he’s a Luthor. It’s just—we went our separate ways, and we haven’t been friends in years, and he probably doesn’t think about me at all. I’m sure _he_ doesn’t have any unresolved issues.”

“I’m sure he does, Mr. Kent. We all do.” Earnest, the doorman to Clark’s building, smiled at him kindly.

Clark had been so distracted he hadn’t even realized he’d reached home. He ducked his head and blushed and managed a smile for Earnest as he hurried inside. In his apartment, he shrugged out of his jacket and threw it onto a chair and trudged into the kitchen. God, he needed a drink. He yanked the refrigerator door open—a little too forcefully, making the hinges groan—and pulled out the milk and tipped the whole thing back, drinking straight from the carton, even though his mom would yell at him if she were there to see. Desperate times and all that.

“I hate to see you reduced to drowning your problems in dairy, Clark.”

That low, coiled voice, and only super reflexes kept Clark from dropping the milk.

“Lex.” Clark did his best to remember that he should be pissed off and adopted the appropriate glare. “So you’re breaking and entering now?”

Lex shrugged. “I prefer to call it dropping by. You have a problem. I’ve come to offer my assistance.”

“What—“ Clark’s eyes went wide, and even though he knew now was the time to lie, lie, lie for all he was worth, he couldn’t help sputtering, “You were listening! You bugged the Justice League. Okay, this? This is exactly why people think you’re—um, not that I know anything about the Justice League. The Justice League has absolutely nothing to do with anything.”

“Come on, Clark.” Lex took one very deliberate step toward him. “Is this really how you want to spend our time together? On accusations and arguments?”

It really, really wasn’t. Clark could think of so many things he’d rather be doing with Lex. But—

“I just want to know why you’re here,” he said firmly.

Lex’s answer was to stride right up to Clark, press their bodies together, and kiss Clark on the mouth. “I’m here to help you resolve your issues.” He ran his hand over the bulge in Clark’s pants.

Clark made a sound—maybe it was a whimper, who was to say really—and for a few moments he totally forgot why he shouldn’t be doing this. Lex felt so good, and his mouth was hot and wet and perfect, and he smelled just incredibly—

Possibly Clark said that last bit out loud, because suddenly Lex was pulling him closer and kissing him harder and calling his name, low and intense.

“No, wait. Lex. I can’t—you were listening, _spying_ on me—“

“Can you honestly tell me you’ve never spied on me?” Lex kissed his way up Clark’s neck. “Used your super hearing for less than noble purposes.”

“I’m not—“ Clark denied, more out of habit than any real belief that Lex didn’t know all about his superpowers.

“Don’t,” Lex told him sternly.

“Okay, fine, but it wasn’t—when I was listening, it was—“

“Different?” The word was laced with bitterness.

Self-torture, Clark wanted to say. He really, really could have gone his whole life without knowing exactly how eager Lex’s assistant was to, well, assist him. He certainly didn’t need to know how Lex sounded when other people were making him come.

“I’m sorry,” Clark ended up saying, because he was, in so many ways.

Lex went still. Obviously he hadn’t been expecting that. He moved closer, his mouth against Clark’s ear. “We’ve both waited long enough, Clark. We really should get to work on your issues.” He stroked a hand seductively down Clark’s back.

Who could possibly resist that? Not Clark, not even a little bit. He wrapped his arms around Lex and kissed him and rubbed against him and was pleased to find that Lex was just as hard as he was.

“Clark,” Lex said, his voice rough, inviting.

The bedroom was too far away, even at super speed. So Clark got Lex naked right there in the kitchen, pulling at his clothes, ripping them when he got too impatient. Lex made encouraging noises, and Clark boosted him up onto the counter, stepped between his legs. He kissed him and put his hands everywhere, all over Lex’s beautiful skin. He wanted to do everything, all at once.

“That guy, Brandon, your assistant, I can’t—you have to fire him,” Clark blurted out in between kisses.

Lex laughed. “You know, Clark, if you’d ever seen Brandon, rather than just listening in, you’d be far less jealous.” He dug his fingers into Clark’s shoulders. “You’re not the only one who can have a small case of transference.”

“Lex,” Clark groaned. The idea that he’d searched out a lookalike for Clark was surprisingly hot. But. “You’ll still—“

“I’m sure I can find a position for Brandon in our Sydney office.”

“Good.” Clark smoothed his hands over Lex’s shoulders, down his back, cupped Lex’s ass and pulled him closer. God. Lex felt _amazing_. Clark really wanted to be naked against him, but he didn’t want to take his hands off Lex long enough to undress, and he wasn’t sure how to reconcile that conundrum. Fortunately, Lex took charge, stripping the shirt off Clark with deft, clever hands.

“Clark.” He sounded sexy and focused, which just made Clark even hotter for him, and he opened Clark’s pants with a quick flick of his wrist.

“Oh, oh,” Clark gasped when Lex pushed his hand inside his underwear and touched his dick.

Lex’s hand. On Clark’s dick. Finally. He closed his eyes and pushed into the touch and tried not to whimper. Unfortunately, the long-awaited intimacy of the moment brought out a stupid impulse toward honesty in Clark.

“This doesn’t mean—I still have to keep an eye on—“

Lex squeezed Clark’s balls; no doubt his grip would have been painful if Clark were anyone else. “And I intend to make sure you never use your abilities for anything other than the public good.”

A balance of power. Clark thought about that for a moment. Actually it sounded kind of—fair.

“Okay.”

Lex raised an eyebrow in surprise. Apparently he’d been expecting more drama. Clark shrugged. He didn’t have to be an idiot forever, and he really would rather spend the time kissing Lex.

So he did. A lot. And there was touching too. And maybe a little begging. Mostly this was from Clark.

“Lex, I’ve had issues about you for a really long time,” he confessed shyly after they’d both come, his face pressed tightly against Lex’s shoulder. “Actually, I think it was issues at first sight.”

Lex stroked his fingers through Clark’s hair and kissed him. “If I have anything to say about it, Clark, you’ll never stop having issues.”

Clark smiled. That sounded way better than therapy.


End file.
